


A Vision, a Dream

by telanaris



Series: Arcana One-Shots [3]
Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: Angst, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-27
Updated: 2018-02-27
Packaged: 2019-03-24 13:26:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13812105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/telanaris/pseuds/telanaris
Summary: First time writing for the Arcana fandom! Have some angsty Julian at the Rowdy Raven, the morning after the “breakup” in Book VII.





	A Vision, a Dream

He had certainly expected returning to Vesuvia to be painful—but he had not expected _this._

_Finding you... that was a rare treat._

Something stolen. Something he would cherish until the end of his days, found in the deepest darkness, like a brilliant star leading a ship to port on a moonless night.

For a moment, so close to what he was sure was the end of his life, he had been _happy._

But now—oh, _now..._ ever since he had left her on her doorstep it had felt like he was rotting from the inside out. He felt utterly hollowed, as though there were no more to him than skin stretched over bones, paper-thin. When she'd closed that door she'd left him like an empty temple, all echoing silence where there should be song, and worship. Dust collecting in the corners.

But not her fault. No, not her fault.

He should not have come back to Mazelinka's that morning. He knew he'd regret it then, even as he returned, with the leaden feeling in his calves slowing each step he took back. He should have left her to wake alone; to know, as the day worn on, that he was not returning. That he had _abandoned_ her. And the hurt she would have felt at that—being stood up—would ensure that she'd cast away these fantastical illusions she had of him. That he was a _good man_. That he would not hurt her. The sting of so cowardly an abandonment would cauterize the wound like smelt-hot iron, and she'd go on, without him… hurt, but whole.

Instead he'd gone back. Instead, he'd drawn the whole thing out. It was not so hard, to tell a person, “ _No._ ” He'd said it to Lucio often enough. And so he knew that the reason it had taken him a whole day to push her away was not because he did not know how, but because he did not want to; because he wished to linger a little longer in her light.

The honest truth was that now, with what he’d done, he’d probably never see her again. And (selfishly, he knew) that pained him almost as badly as the idea that he had hurt her.

It was a pain he could hardly bear. No hangman’s noose could compare to it. If he wanted answers—that which had brought him to Vesuvia to begin with—he would have to bury it.

Drown it.

Knock back foul ales until his head swam and his long legs turned to jelly and he could finally, _finally_ , put the thought of her out of his head.

And he was nearly succeeding. The Rowdy Raven was just as dim during day as it was during the night, but that didn't stop him from flinching at the sun streaks slipping in through the slatted shutters. He hid his head in his arms, a darkened shelter from the light that felt like knives piercing his temples. He could feel the rough grains of the table against the tip of his nose. His head was pounding; his abdomen ached. He wasn't sure whether he was drunk or hungover or whether his body (cursed or not) was simply rebelling against the introduction of more toxins, but he felt incredibly _awful._

Which, he recognized, he deserved. 

At least if he could not forget her, he should suffer for what he had done to her.

But then—lo!—the scratch of wood on wood. And it was a soft sound but to Julian's ears it was like nails on chalkboard. He felt, more than heard, the vibration of the chair against the floor, sliding out from beneath the table. He felt it in his boots. But when he lifted his head slowly out of his arms to see who had dared intrude upon his self-loathing and solitude, his breath caught in his throat—

He could hardly breathe—

It is _her_.

...he must be well and truly drunk, then. She is a _vision_ , she must be a dream; she could not be here, not now, not beside him, not after what he put her through. His eyes are playing tricks on him. Twice, they'd met here. Twice, she'd sat across the table from him, and smiled, and laughed—even that first night, when she'd come in with his old drawings, when he knew she spelt trouble, Julian couldn't help himself. Couldn't take his eyes off of her.

Couldn't now, either. A dream, a vision. She lowers herself slowly into the chair in front of him, folds her hands in front of her on the table. And the slatted light of day is streaking her features in stripes of brilliant gold, and with her hair held back from her face he can see the long and shapely line of her beautiful neck. Her pulse fluttering just below her jaw. A vision—she is _magnificent._

"Good morning, Julian."

She speaks! And the patience, and the gravity in her voice—she is no apparition. She is really here. _She is here_ , and there is only one explanation for that: she has come for _him._

And he knows what he looks like. Broken, washed up. Smelling of drink and stale sorrow. And he knows, he knows: he should be bewildered to find her here, and he should be ashamed to be found in the state he is in. 

But there is no room within him for those feelings. Because for a moment, with her looking like an angel in the morning light, the only feeling he has room for (so swelled up, filling all that empty space and pushing from inside his ribcage outward) is the feeling of gratefulness, breathlessness, relief:

He has been allowed this, to see her again. To behold her. 

**Author's Note:**

> hey if you like my work you can catch me writing for the Arcana on tumblr at 4biddenleeches


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